


The Gold that Stays

by deinvati



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arthur is a hot mess, Discussions of parental death, Happy Ending, Inception Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Pet Owner!Arthur, Veterinarian!Eames, the pets are fine, the pets do not die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2020-07-28 23:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: "Oh, hello there," he said, smiling a charmingly crooked smile. "Buzz," he muttered under his breath, "good boy."  He held his hand out to Arthur. "Dr. Eames, at your service, but you can just call me Eames.  What can I—""You need to save my fish."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> See the end of this chapter for GORGEOUS artwork by [swimmingrat](https://tmblr.co/Z6mN4q2jsnvps), who is amazing and talented and I am SO LUCKY to get to see art for this fic! THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!
> 
> Thank you also to Flos and Mousie, who read over and talked to me about this fic, and in general, did what they do about most things: made it better.

_Oh, Arthur, don't be silly!_

The gray light of dawn greeted him as he blinked awake, and his mother's tinkling laugh faded back into his memory. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut again even as he put his feet on the floor.

The hotel room where he'd been staying was bland and unoriginal, and yet probably more hospitable than his apartment in New York. It certainly had more hung on the walls.

Not that he didn't miss it. He kept it minimalistic on purpose. A simple life for a simple guy, he told himself. Or just less to collect dust in an apartment where he only came to sleep, poorly, before heading back to the office.

It was definitely easier than this shit, though, he thought, straightening his tie in the mirror. When his mother died, Cobb had told him to take a week off. When he told him that wasn't necessary and he'd be back on Monday, Cobb insisted he take two.

So here he was, end of week one, funeral planned and attended, casseroles portioned into containers which barely fit in the hotel fridge and probably wouldn't be eaten, and a testy text from his sister asking him to meet her at the house at 8 _sharp_, as if he'd ever been late for anything in his life.

True to form, she rolled up at five after, large sunglasses hiding her face and Starbucks for one in her hand.

"Hey, Spaz," she said, but she sounded tired and drawn.

"Hey, Puke," he replied, but her smile wobbled a bit and she looked at the house with a sigh.

"You ready for this?" she asked.

"I was born ready."

"And 6 weeks early," she said, brandishing the keys which a week ago had been his mother's.

"I got tired of waiting," he answered, their standard back and forth. The routine was comforting and a bit odd at the same time without her there to roll her eyes at them.

"If there's anything you want, claim it now," she announced, leaning into the old door to get it open. "The vultures will descend eventually."

Arthur looked around the house where he grew up and spent every major holiday and summer vacation, and felt lost. "I'd like dad's drawing table I think," he replied, not knowing what he'd do with it or how he'd get it back to New York.

"Kay," she said, and dropped the keys into the flower-shaped bowl by the door.

It struck Arthur that the flower bowl would be one of the things neither he nor anyone else would claim, and it would be donated somewhere, and soon it would be by someone else's front door, holding someone else's keys. Or it would be trash.

_I should be crying,_ Arthur thought. _I should have cried by now. _But he just felt numb. Was that one of the stages? Numbness? How many stages of grief were there, anyway? 12? No, that was alcohol.

Arthur took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the kitchen chair, wishing he were drunk. Then he rolled his sleeves and got a garbage bag. This, and there was no other word for it, sucked.

* * *

His sister hugged him at the airport. He knew she'd gotten the shit end of the bargain, living closer, and she knew it too. He thanked her, and she nodded, tear-stained and puffy. God, why hadn't he cried yet? Maybe he was broken.

_Oh, Arthur, don't be silly!_

Arthur lugged his carryon and turned to wave one last time.

The funeral had been nice, the estate auction hurried and depressing. But they'd figured out what to do with everything except the house.

"It'll keep," he'd let her tell him. "It's paid for. Besides, one of us might want it for all the kids we're going to have someday."

He'd snorted and let her make the decision. He'd let her make most of the decisions, actually.

His apartment smelled stale when he got back, so he threw open one of the windows he paid so much to look out of but rarely did. Then, because he didn't know what else to do, he unpacked and went to bed.

He woke again at 5 am to the memory of his mother's laugh, their last phone conversation haunting him. He'd always called her once or twice a month, just to let her check in on him, and she'd always dropped whatever she was doing to talk.

When she'd told him she was sick, he'd offered to come home. She'd laughed.

"_Oh, Arthur, don't be silly! You couldn't take care of a goldfish. You don't need to worry about me. I'll be fine."_

And he'd believed her. He'd let her make the decision, and he'd gone back to work. Which is where he was two weeks later when his sister, Alex, had called to tell him she'd passed away.

Arthur rubbed the grit from his eyes and stood to make coffee. He didn't particularly want any, but it was a routine, and he could use a little normalcy right now. He sipped it black and stared unseeing at the news article he'd pulled up on his phone because he had to get his head into work mode somehow. Everything felt off for some reason, but he had to get back to work. It was his comfort zone, his space where he could be successful, and it didn't take a therapist to figure out why he worked 60-hour weeks. It also didn't take a therapist to figure out why his houseplants always died. He'd stopped keeping them a long time ago.

There was a buzz for the door.

Arthur frowned and pressed the intercom. "Yes?"

"Got a delivery here for you. Looks like some kinda table?"

"Oh, right," Arthur said. "Bring it up."

He opened the door for two sweaty guys carrying his father's drafting table, and he tipped them even though they didn't ask where he wanted it before plopping it in the middle of his living room floor.

Arthur sighed and went to get ready for work.

In his office at his own drafting table, he couldn't shake the fog which had enveloped him. The disappointing weight of his empty coffee mug every time he picked it up was a let down every time.

He had just picked it up for the fourth time in an hour when Dom walked in, a file in his hand.

"Hey, Arthur, welcome back, have a good few days off?"

"Um…"

"Hey, listen. I need you to pull up the Stanover plans. The wife wants bigger cabinets in the kitchen so we're going to have to redraw them."

Arthur raised an eyebrow at the "we're" and dragged the plans over. "Okay, so fewer, but wider?"

"No, she wants the same number, but wider." He handed Arthur the specs sheet.

Arthur just looked at Dom. "How are we going to do that, Dom? The room is only so big."

Dom gave a soft laugh, the kind clients loved. "I know, man. Homeowners, am I right?" He tapped the file on Arthur's desk. "But it's not like the house is built yet, so…"

He clicked his tongue and left, and Arthur could hear him whistling down the hall.

Fuck. An entire redraw for a few more inches of cabinet space. He was going to need coffee for this. He picked up his mug, and when the empty, coffee-stained bottom looked back at him, he calmly and viciously chucked it against the wall.

The resounding shatter didn't do anything to make him feel better and the tiny scream from someone in the exterior office made him realize he needed to get out of there. He grabbed his jacket.

"Everything okay? Arthur?" someone asked.

"Yeah," he replied, not slowing down, "just dropped a mug. Going to grab some air, you need anything?" He left without listening for a reply.

Outside, the heat baked the concrete around him and the air was too still. Sweat prickled his skin before he'd walked a block, and by the second block, he was done. He headed into the next commercial building with air conditioning.

His sigh of relief ended in a sigh of resignation. A pet store. Of course it was a pet store.

_Oh, Arthur, don't be silly! You couldn't take care of a goldfish._

With a frown of determination, he headed to the wall of aquariums he could see from the front door.

"Hello!" said a perky assistant. Her name tag said "Ariadne". "How can I help you?"

"Um," Arthur hesitated. "I'm just looking?"

She raised a dubious eyebrow. "Okayyyy, well, in the meantime, do you have any questions I can answer? My shift isn't over for five more hours and you're the first customer I've had all day. Come on, help me out. Mister…?"

At her pleading face, Arthur smiled despite himself. "Arthur is fine. And you're Arrriiie...?"

"Ariadne," she said, holding out her hand. "But Ari is fine."

He shook it and looked around. "Well, okay, uh. How much are your goldfish?"

Her eyes lit up and she led him toward the wall. "Fancy or feeder?"

"Um, I don't know?"

"Well, what's it for?"

And how did he say, _It's to prove to my dead mother and possibly myself that I can take care of myself and possibly even other things_? How could he tell this young woman that?

"It's… it's for me."

"They're both good for pets," she said. "Do you have any other fish?"

Arthur shook his head. "I've never had a pet," he admitted.

Her mouth hung open dramatically. "Not even when you were a kid?" She led him over to a large tank in the middle of the floor, swarming with small fish, flashing brightly.

Arthur peered through the glass. "My sister was allergic and by the time I was old enough to realize there were pets I might still be able to get..." _my dad had died and everything fell apart. _"I was into other stuff."

She nodded. "Goldfish can live a long time if you take care of them. Ten years or so, if you've got a big enough tank, or move them to a pond."

Arthur hesitated and straightened. "And how do you actually… take care of them?"

So she talked. And talked. Water changes and tank sizes and proper feeding, filters, and bubblers and Arthur's head started to swim. He furiously typed notes into his phone.

He looked back at the tank, indecision washing over him. "There are so many different colors. I thought they were just… gold."

Ari chuckled, but not unkindly. "Feeder fish are still an offshoot of koi fish. But if they're overwhelming…"

She turned and led him back to the wall, smaller tanks atop one another, so many different kinds of fish calmly existing.

"Here. There are a couple of fancy breeds, but..." she pointed to a tank. "I've always been partial to fantails, myself."

A handful of goldfish bobbed back and forth, a little bigger than the fish in the swarm tank and looking much more comfortable with the extra room to swim. One turned to look at him. Its fins floated elegantly, and it seemed healthy enough? Except there was nothing else in the tank with them. Didn't fish need plants? Or decorations? He refused to think of his own apartment and asked Ari.

"Yes, absolutely, fish love having places to hide and explore. Here," she said, leading him to the aisles, and before Arthur knew it, he had a cart with an aquarium full of supplies, and a plastic bag holding one (1) fantail goldfish.

"And you're sure he won't be lonely."

Ari looked like she'd hug him if it wasn't unprofessional. "He'll be fine. But check with me before you decide to get another fish. Okay?"

Arthur nodded, but one was enough for him. He just had to make sure he could handle one at all. He got an Uber home and called Dom to let him know he was taking the rest of the day off. Dom hadn't been aware he'd left but agreed as long as the Stanover plans were finished on time. Arthur didn't even hang up on him.

The stand he'd purchased for the tank fit neatly once he'd moved the table he never used and put his dad's table in the corner. He spent the rest of the day setting it up, the perfect display and ratio of plants to rocks, with a small castle in the middle. By the time he'd installed everything, treated the water, and floated the bag like he was supposed to, it was full dark outside.

"Okay, Frank, here we go," Arthur said into the stillness of his apartment. "I've got everything set up for you, so just… don't die on me."

He released Frank from his plastic confines and held his breath as he swam, bewildered, over the expanse of his new home. Arthur fed him, sitting on the floor to record Frank's reactions to the food, and watched him poke his nose into the maze of nooks and crannies Arthur had carefully created.

It was… peaceful. Before he knew it, Arthur felt the tension slough off his shoulders as he listened to the quiet whir of the filter. He watched Frank swim and just… breathed. After a while, he lay on the floor, watching Frank swim, the light from the aquarium washing over him.

* * *

One week. That's how long he was able to prove to his dead mother he could handle taking care of himself and possibly even other things.

"Alright, Frank," Arthur said, bending to grab his shoes on his way out the door. He'd taken to talking to him as he moved around the apartment, knowing exactly how dumb he sounded. "You're the man of the house while I'm…"

He broke off as he caught sight of the flash of orange drifting listlessly toward the top of the tank.

"Oh no no no no," Arthur chanted under his breath, "please, please…"

Arthur shook food into the tank hopefully, but the flakes drifted, uneaten, toward the gravel at the bottom. He tapped on the side of the tank, which startled the fish into swimming toward the back and Arthur caught sight of a gash on Frank's side.

"Fuck," Arthur breathed. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Okay, okay, it's okay, Frank. I can fix this. Shit. Um." He shoved his feet into his shoes and scrambled to his kitchen cabinets.

"Something, something, something…"

He reached for and discarded various bowls and plastic leftover containers, trying to find one trustworthy of transporting his fish. Then he spent fifteen frustrating minutes trying to scoop Frank into a mason jar and was only vaguely aware he was slopping water all over his work slacks and his shoes were still untied.

Once he had Frank secured, he sent a hurried text to Dom and went to hail a cab. Outside, the driver didn't know where the nearest vet's office was and was not all that interested in finding out. He looked on blandly as Arthur searched one-handed on his phone.

"Here," he said, holding his phone up to the glass. "Go here."

The driver seemed to move at half speed as he slow-blinked and turned to put the car in drive. Arthur tried to calm the beating of his heart because this was _stupid_, and he _knew that_. But as he lifted the jar to his face and watched Frank's mouth open and close, he couldn't help but whisper, "Hang in there, buddy."

The vet's office was small-minuscule, really, and smelled slightly of dog food, but Arthur barely noticed. He rushed to the counter.

"Hi, I need to see a…" he broke off as he realized no one was sitting at the desk. Well, not no one.

A golden retriever sat on the chair and smiled at Arthur with his tongue hanging out.

"Um…" Arthur looked around for some kind of bell.

The dog gave one short bark and a flurry of activity sounded around a corner. "Buzz!" came a woman's voice, "What is this barking? We are at work! You know better than—"

She hurried to the desk, a stack of folders in her arms and a fierce frown on her face, but blinked when she saw Arthur. "Oh, hello." She had a French accent and a warm smile. "My apologies, I did not hear the door." She pushed the dog out of the chair with her hip and muttered something in French, which Arthur caught the word "lucky" and nothing else.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I need to see the vet," Arthur said, licking his lips.

She raised a cool, perfectly arched brow and propped her chin on her fingertips. "_You_ need to see the vet?"

Arthur frowned his confusion before he realized what she was asking. "Oh, no, not me. I mean, for my fish. My fish needs to see the vet."

She looked truly sorry for a second before she said, "I apologize, we do not work on tropical fish here. There is another office—"

"No, this isn't a tropical fish," Arthur interrupted. He carefully set Frank's jar on the counter and unwrapped his hands from where they'd been clenched around it.

"My dear," the woman said carefully, "this is a goldfish."

"Yeah."

There was a long pause as she alternated looking between him and the jar.

"Listen, my dear—"

"Arthur."

"Arthur," she said, "listen. Goldfish, they are inexpensive, yes? But the doctor… he is not always so inexpensive. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Arthur flapped his hand, trying not to scowl. "It's fine, that's not important right now."

"Yes, but—"

"I said it's not important right now!" Arthur said.

Her face closed off, cool and disdainful in response to his raised voice, and Arthur immediately felt guilty in a way most people couldn't provoke.

"I mean," he said tightly, "he could be dying. And I can't let that happen, okay? Not if there's something I can do to stop it. I know that probably sounds idiotic, but..."

"Arthur…"

"Please. Okay? Please."

She pursed her lips and reached for a clipboard. "Fine. You will fill these out." She thrust them at Arthur. "Buzz," she said to the dog, "go get Eames."

A whump and a clatter of nails on tile, and Arthur watched a tail wag its way out of the small lobby.

Arthur took his clipboard and pen taped to a plastic flower and retreated to a chair under the front window. He juggled Frank's jar, worried shoving it between his thighs would make Frank too warm, and anything else risked knocking it over and breaking it. Eventually, he settled on placing it gently on the neighboring chair and struggled to explain on the form that he didn't know the age of his fish or when his last vaccination was.

"Alright, where's my next victim?" came a cheery British voice from the back. The clatter of nails preceded the entrance of Buzz and a scruffy man in scrubs and a lab coat wearing hideous neon sneakers.

"Oh, hello there," he said, smiling a charmingly crooked smile. "Buzz, good boy," he muttered under his breath, and held his hand out to Arthur. "Dr. Eames, at your service, but you can just call me Eames. And you've already met Mal," he gestured to the woman behind the counter, who nodded, "and my assistant, Buzz. What can I—"

Arthur ignored the way a dog had been introduced as an assistant and thrust Frank's jar at the very handsome vet. A vet who may or may not have just woken up based on the state of his hair and beard. "You need to save my fish."

To Arthur's embarrassment, his voice sounded strained and scared and about 12 years old, and he could feel the tips of his ears heating.

Eames just took the jar calmly. "Oh, aren't you a beauty?" he said, holding Frank up to the light. "Yep, I see what you mean." He looked at Arthur. "Why don't you come back this way and we'll take a look."

Arthur nodded too fast and handed his clipboard to a dubious Mal at the front desk.

"Eames…" she started.

"Shh tssh tssh," Eames said, waving her off, and held a door open for Arthur and Buzz.

Arthur followed the dog, who seemed to know where he was going, into what was clearly an exam room. It smelled of disinfectant back here rather than dog food, and Arthur stood awkwardly in the liminal space.

"Alright," Eames said, entering shortly behind him, "have a seat and we'll see what we've got. Arthur, isn't it?"

"Yes," Arthur said tightly, sitting in a chair against the wall. Buzz settled himself immediately against Arthur's shins, leaning against him and getting dog hair all over his suit pants.

"And who do we have here?"

"Frank."

Eames settled the jar carefully on the exam table in the middle of the room and unscrewed the lid. He didn't rush, and his movements were economical and practiced. Arthur felt a little better just watching his hands pull on exam gloves and gather equipment, humming to himself.

"Now," he said, setting everything in front of him, "Arthur. Tell me what's going on."

"Well, I just saw him this morning, kind of listless, and then I saw that big gash on his side, and so your office was the closest one to my apartment."

"Hmm," Eames hummed. "Arthur." He said it like a warning, his efficient movements never stopping.

"...What?"

"You brought Frank to the vet because he wasn't well. You've done all any responsible goldfish owner could do. So. Pet the dog," Eames said, "And tell me what's really going on."

Buzz carefully placed his chin on Arthur's knee, a soft sigh escaping, and Arthur felt the last every moment since that phone call catch up to him. His shoulders dropped under the weight of the last few weeks, and he placed his hand on the soft fur of Buzz's head. To his humiliation, as he stroked his ears, Arthur felt the ridiculous urge to cry.

After all this time, after so many restless nights of waking up to memories and fading voices, he was going to start sobbing in front of the hottest guy he'd seen in a year.

Eames didn't push him or even watch him except to glance over occasionally. He was busy adding water from Frank's jar to multiple test tubes via a needleless syringe. Frank had settled near the bottom of his jar, fins flicking occasionally, and Arthur's throat clicked as he tried to blink through the way the room was wavering.

"My," he said, clearing his throat, "my uh, mom died."

Eames froze, but his face didn't hold that hint of terror that he'd said the wrong thing. Just a sad understanding. "Oh, Arthur, I'm so sorry."

Arthur just licked his lips, biting them to keep everything inside and nodded. He would need to get better at saying that and then coming up with an answer.

Eames studied him carefully for a few seconds, considering, and then went back to his test tubes. "Was Frank hers?" he asked carefully.

"No," Arthur shook his head. "But I should be able to take care of a _goldfish_. Or at least help if it gets sick. Or at least know…" His hands fluttered before he settled them on Buzz again.

Eames added various elements the test tubes, swirling them and placing them in a rack. Then he snapped off his gloves and took the chair next to Arthur.

"Well," he started, "I have good news and I have bad news."

Arthur steeled himself. "What's the bad news?"

"The good news," Eames said, eyes crinkling, "is that your fish is going to be fine."

The air whooshed out of Arthur's lungs. "He is?"

"Mm hmm." His eyes were gray and steady, and he was smiling. "Fish are fairly resilient, given that you're keeping their water clean. And your water, Arthur, is perfect."

Arthur swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"The laceration on his side has got a nice, healthy slime buildup on it, so he's going to heal right up, all on his own. Now, do you have any other fish?"

Arthur shook his head, not trusting his voice.

"Hmm, well in that case," Eames said, nodding toward Frank, "he probably got that gash from not minding where he put his fins when he was exploring his new home. Have you got any sharp rocks or decorations in his tank?"

"Um," Arthur said, "a, a castle? Was that wrong?"

"No, no, not at all. And I'm guessing he's learned his lesson. But just in case, I think Frank is more of a plant guy than a picket fence guy."

Arthur felt himself nodding and realized he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. "You said there was bad news?"

"Ah, yes," Eames said. "The bad news is that I am probably not going to get to see you again, which is just terrible because I would very much like to. Also, it is really rather a bad moment to give you my number."

Arthur blinked. "I… excuse me?"

Eames just smiled and shrugged one shoulder, and Arthur couldn't tell if he had any sense of shame at all. "I'd like to see you again. Would you like to go to dinner?"

"Are you really hitting on me? After I told you my mom died and you've just taken care of my fish?"

"I am, darling." Nope, no sense of shame at all. But a really great smile. "What do you say?"

"I… Isn't this like, an ethical dilemma?"

Eames chuckled and Buzz lifted his head, tongue lolling. "I'm not asking to take your fish to dinner, Arthur, just you. So I don't think I'm crossing any boundaries. But I'm glad you asked, darling. I do have the highest level of professional integrity, after all. I want to be completely professional regarding your fish."

Arthur felt like he'd been strung out all over this exam room, just one long, unwound ball of Arthur needing to be knitted back together. He felt a semi-hysterical laugh bubble up out of his throat. Buzz looked up at Arthur now, smiling back and forth between them.

"I can't believe this is happening," he muttered to himself. "I don't know anything about you," Arthur pointed out. "And you don't know anything about me. How can you possibly know if you want to take me to dinner?"

"Arthur," and the way he said his name made it sound like a fond admonition. "We know loads about each other already!"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, annoyed that he could be so charmed by someone so completely not his type.

"For example," Eames said, sitting back. "You know that I am a charming and debonair animal-lover who looks exactly like his profile picture, with a steady income and a very high level of professional integrity."

Arthur snorted, but Buzz had leaned back in for a scratch, and what could Arthur do but comply?

"And I feel as if I know you already, Arthur Last-Name-Not-Given," Eames grinned. "Gorgeous, no ring so more than likely unmarried, obviously brilliant and financially stable if those trousers are anything to go by…"

He smiled softly at Arthur, no longer teasing. "And you care about your family and your pets. And maybe you're just a bloke who could use a night out and someone to talk to. That's okay too. But, let me tell you, darling, I am brilliant at nights out as well as just talking."

Arthur had been given so many hugs since his mother had died. Embrace after embrace, extended family and people he'd never met, and he hadn't felt a single one. But for some reason, he believed Eames. After all those hugs, his words were what had finally gotten through. He felt warm and seen.

"Besides," Eames said, "if the dog likes you, that's good enough for me."

Arthur looked down at the pliant pile of dog hair leaning up against him with his eyes closed, groaning into the scratches Arthur was providing. "You sure? Buzz seems like the kind of dog who likes anyone."

Eames frowned mightily. "Oh no," he shook his head. "Very discerning taste, that one. And me, as well! Only the best for my animals."

Arthur huffed a laugh. "I'm sure."

"So… is that a yes?"

Arthur looked at him, gray eyes hopeful and his face making Arthur feel like maybe he could be hopeful again someday too. He stood, disrupting Buzz and making his way over to the exam table. "I tell you what," he said, cautiously. "I'll go to dinner with you on one condition."

Eames lifted an eyebrow and stood also. "What's that, then?"

"Frank has to live." Arthur picked up the jar and checked on the fish floating near the bottom. "One week, and if he's still alive, I'll go to dinner with you."

Eames raised his eyebrows and made an interested noise.

"What do you say, Dr. Eames? Confident in your diagnosis?"

Eames crossed his arms and a flash of tattoo poked out from under the collar of his scrubs. He grinned. "Darling, one thing I have never lacked is confidence."

Arthur rolled his eyes despite his smile. "I have no doubt that's true."

<https://tmblr.co/Z6mN4q2jsnvps>

  



	2. Chapter 2

Monday. Who goes out on a date on a Monday? Oh, that's right. This was Eames' idea.

Arthur tied his tie in the mirror and checked his watch before he grabbed his jacket. He'd barely had time to take a quick shower after he got off work before he had to get ready to meet Eames at the restaurant, and he was cutting it close. He squatted down next to the tank and took a selfie.

—_Just had to tuck in the little one. Leaving now. Might be late._

He hit send without waiting for a reply.

"Frank, no wild parties while I'm out. And don't wait up for me, just in case."

Outside, he chased down a taxi and checked his messages from the backseat, allowed under cover of gathering darkness, to grin at Eames' reply.

—_Perfect, that'll give me time to strategically loosen my shoe under the table for footsie later._

He'd taken Eames' number, but it didn't matter because Eames had looked up his cell phone from Frank's file before he'd even put him back in his tank.

—_I demand hourly updates on Frank's wellbeing, darling. How else am I to know if I'll be busy next Monday?_

Arthur had shaken his head and replied, _-Who said anything about next Monday? Today is Monday. That's not a full week, Dr. Eames._

—_Monday to Monday is a week,_ Eames had replied. _Ask anyone. And you don't have to be so formal, darling._

—_Fine. I will send you hourly pictures of my fish, Mr. Eames. Is that better?_

—_Brilliant. Monday at 8 works perfectly for me. I know just the place._

And Arthur realized he was grinning at his phone and holding a jar of goldfish water, and snapped the first of what would be many blurry pictures of Frank.

And for the rest of the week, Eames would text him between clients, of which there were few, and added him to a group chat with Mal, the receptionist. And before he knew it, his phone would buzz and he would jump to check it, or he would leave his phone in his office for a meeting and come back to 161 unread texts of Eames and Mal discussing polio. Or gendered hair ribbons for babies. Or who could take the best "my face as an emoji" photo. Or a dozen other conversations they sucked Arthur into against his will. Many times it was Mal and Eames, but then Eames started texting him later at night, after Mal had gone home to her family and Arthur had climbed between the sheets to read for a bit, and Eames would text him things like, "_Have you ever played an instrument?"_ and "_What's your middle initial and I'll try to guess the name."_

Arthur still didn't quite know what Eames expected from him, but it was… fun. Eames was fun to talk to via text. Arthur had forgotten what it felt like to look forward to something, and a challenge to be witty and clever in his replies. It was easy to say things like, "_Mr. Eames, I'm sure your "o" face is more of a "d'oh!" face most of the time,"_ when he didn't have to be invested in the reply. And it was fun to punch the air when he got an, "_I'll suppose you'll have to decide for yourself,"_ in return anyway.

To be honest, Arthur thought maybe fun and flirty could be just the thing. He could do a summer fling. Eames could be someone he used to forget the last month and remember how to have fun. Or a booty call. Did people still call them booty calls? Did group texting with your booty call and his secretary really set the right tone? Frank refused to weigh in on any of this.

The restaurant Eames had chosen was a young place in an old building, and not really Arthur's taste, but the online reviews had been decent. He spotted Eames in a dark corner and squared his shoulders. Just because he was keeping things light didn't mean he didn't want this to go _well_. It was a date, after all.

Eames caught his eye and smirked the whole time it took Arthur to walk to his table. He didn't get up or hold Arthur's chair for him, and Arthur hesitated for just a moment before seating himself across the small table. This _was_ a date, right? But Eames' eyes crinkled with delight and he leaned into Arthur's space as soon as he sat down.

"Arthur, love, I'm so glad to see you. This is already going better than two of the last five times I went out."

And Arthur grinned, not because it was exactly something Eames would text him and it was a huge relief, but because he was fun and light and ready to blow off steam.

"I guess I've got my work cut out for me if I'm already behind three of them," Arthur fired back with one eyebrow raised.

Eames looked a bit dazed as he chuckled. "Is that how that came across? Well, allow me to spend the evening begging your apology because that's sincerely not what I meant."

Arthur bit back the reply he wanted to say about begging and just said, "No need, Mr. Eames. I already know I'm the best. I'll wait for you to catch up."

True to his word, Eames took him to dinner and talked. If he'd wanted to just be a bloke needing to talk, that would have been very gentlemanly and appreciated. But, well, the wine selection was excellent, and it had been a while since Arthur'd been on a date, but he still knew how they went. And he couldn't help but notice that the open collar of Eames' shirt showed off the edge of more than one tattoo, and another peeked from under his sleeve. He angled his body and maintained some heavy eye contact and tried, in general, to put out The Vibe.

"So, Arthur," Eames said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin in a way that made Arthur almost miss what he was saying. "Tell me about the rest of your family."

The sound of brakes screeched in Arthur's head as he sat up and tried to shake off that particular mental bucket of cold water. "Uh. Well. Just my older sister, Alex, now." But Eames just kept looking at him with interest, so Arthur kept talking. "My dad, uh, died when I was young, and my mom didn't get along with his family, and hers was on the other side of the country, so it was mainly just us. Alex and my mom were really close, especially after I moved out. Alex still lives in my hometown, so she was the one who—"

Arthur broke off and wiped his own mouth before reaching for his wine glass again. This was supposed to be fun. He was supposed to be cool and witty, and possibly getting laid by a tattooed British veterinarian. He was absolutely not supposed to be getting all misty-eyed. He cleared his throat. "What about you?"

Eames shrugged. "Well, it's not an accident they're over there and I'm over here. Left my family back in merry old England, didn't I?"

Despite himself, his curiosity piqued. "You don't talk to them at all?"

"Well," Eames said, leaning in, "I don't want to put any pressure on you, but if I go back, I'll be forced to marry and produce an heir to inherit our family's vast estates and titles. See, I'm the last of a long line of Eameses, and I know that by staying here I'm letting everyone down. But," he sighed, "the weight of that crown, Arthur." He breathed out a labored sigh. "It's heavy."

Arthur raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Wow. Was _any_ of that true?"

Eames threw his head back and laughed and Arthur felt warmed to his toes. "Not a word, love." His grin was infectious. "I talk to my mum twice a week or it's my head, and I visit Christmas and Mother's Day and any other time I can get away. Pop runs a pub, although he keeps saying he's going to sell it and retire, but that will never happen." Eames looked at him, lazy and content, and swirled his drink, only his sensible second. This wasn't going exactly the way Arthur had anticipated, but Eames kept talking, and Arthur couldn't help but be intrigued.

"I have two sisters and a brother who keep them off my back about grandkids, a whole pack of nieces and nephews, and the kind of small-town gossip they like to call "it takes a village". Bloody nightmare is what it was, I'll tell you that for free. But enough about all that. You said you were an architect? Tell me about being an architect."

Arthur tried to remember back to the exam room and Eames' exact words, because this _was_ a date, right? He hadn't misread the situation and wandered into an after-work happy hour or something. It just usually didn't take this long to get his date to suggest getting the check and heading back to their place.

And yet, it was still easy to talk to Eames. He found himself talking about his job, which could be tedious, but man, that feeling when it all finally came together, and everything worked…

"When it's finished, it's like… I don't know how to describe it. I could tell you exactly how many bricks, and how many nails if I had to. If I do my job right, the builders shouldn't have any questions, the whole thing should run smooth, and when it's all over, there's a new thing in the world. Like, a creation. And I helped bring it into being."

Eames grinned. "Sounds amazing."

Arthur found himself smiling back and shrugging. "Well, it never does run smooth. That's where my boss comes in. He's supposed to make sure it all works out in the end, but he hates it. He's more of a face-to-face guy, meeting with contractors, selling the building plans, blah blah. But he's got a family, and he's gearing for a promotion, so who knows? Maybe I'll get his job someday."

Eames nodded. "I'm positive you'd be fantastic, darling."

Just that. A compliment. Arthur fought down a blush with the rest of his drink and looked for the waiter.

"Did you drive here?" Eames asked.

"Taxi," Arthur answered before he realized what Eames was really asking. He scowled. "I'm fine."

Eames raised his hands in defense. "No offense meant, love. Habit from growing up in a pub."

Arthur wasn't placated, but he decided he didn't really need another glass anyway. Besides, as nice a guy as Eames was turning out to be, or maybe because of it, it was probably going to be an early night.

"Well," Arthur said like a goodbye, reaching for his wallet. "No offense taken, but I probably _should _think about getting home." Eames didn't look insulted and Arthur joked, "Unless, of course, you want to take me home." He laughed, just in case.

"I'd be happy to," Eames said easily. When Arthur looked at him in surprise, Eames just smiled like he knew something Arthur didn't and reached for his own wallet. They split the bill and overtipped, and Arthur found himself tucked into the front seat of a partially restored classic Shelby Mustang giving Eames directions to his apartment.

At the curb, Eames put the car in park but left the engine running. "Well, here you are, Arthur. Safe and sound and unaccosted." He grinned and Arthur tried to smile back.

"Yeah." Unfortunately. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and decided it couldn't hurt to just flat out _ask _to be accosted. "I don't suppose you want to come up for coffee?"

It was Eames' turn to look surprised, but pleasantly, and although he didn't answer, he shut the car off and came around to hold the car door open for Arthur, which he realized afterward was because there was a trick to getting the door to stay shut.

Arthur led the way to his apartment, stomach jumping far more than he would have expected, and Eames made small talk about the neighborhood while Arthur tried to look like his hands weren't shaking as he opened the door. What was wrong with him all of a sudden? This was what he wanted. Summer fling me, baby. So why did he feel like a teenager at prom?

"Well, this is me," he said, tossing his keys into the flower bowl on the counter.

Eames was looking around, nodding, until he spotted Frank's tank. "Oh hello, love!" He bent to peer through the glass and Arthur didn't stare at his ass. "Look, Arthur, he remembers me!"

Arthur shook his head, smiling, as he took off his jacket and hung it carefully over the back of a chair. Eames straightened and turned, and Arthur decided to get the ball rolling.

With deliberate movements, he held Eames' gaze as he reached up and loosened his tie. Eames grew very still, and Arthur removed it efficiently with a few tugs, draping it over the jacket. Then he watched Eames watching him as he undid the top two buttons. Then his cuffs.

"Ahem," Eames said, jerking out of his stupor and moving past Arthur into the kitchen. "You said something about coffee, I believe..." He started opening cupboards at random. "I can make it. Actually top-notch at coffee, if you can—"

Arthur stopped him with a hand on his arm. Surely Eames wasn't… nervous? This man who'd asked for his number during the middle of his crisis over a fish, and then flirted outrageously with him for a week? But sure enough, there was a pink stain across the tops of Eames' cheeks, and he licked those luscious lips before he met Arthur's eyes.

"I don't want coffee," Arthur said, and stepped into Eames' space.

Eames swallowed.

Arthur ran his hand down Eames' bicep, admiring the view, and settled a hand at his waist. Then with his other, he pulled Eames' away from his cupboards. It was funny, but faced with Eames' nerves, his own disappeared. He felt calm, confident, in control. It felt… good. Amazing, really.

"Kiss me, Mr. Eames." His voice was low and hoarse, and he watched Eames' pupils dilate.

Eames licked his lips again, a quick flicker of tantalizing tongue, but he was staring at Arthur's mouth. "Are you sure?"

Arthur grinned, fierce and feral, and yanked Eames closer. Then he kissed him, hot and sweet, a press of slightly open mouth to slightly open mouth. Oh, he could get used to this. Eames, for all his blushing and offers to make coffee, had a switch that flipped on at the touch of Arthur's lips.

He clutched at Arthur, hips, back, waist, pulling him closer, walking toward him at the same time, trying to grab more of him, all of him. He had ten pairs of arms and they all wanted to touch Arthur at the same time. Arthur groaned and it lit a fire under Eames even more, and Arthur tucked that little nugget of information away for a rainy day. They stumbled backward, touching and gasping, Arthur only vaguely sure they were headed toward the bedroom. When he ran into the drafting table in the corner, missing the bedroom door by about eight feet, he thought, "_close enough_."

Arthur was mesmerized by the slide of Eames' mouth, the rasp of his stubble, but he wanted his hands on the play of muscles he'd been eyeing all night. A few tugs pulled Eames' shirt from his waistband, and Arthur wasted no time exploring skin.

"Arthur," Eames said against his mouth as he struggled against Arthur's hands to unbutton his shirt. "Arthur, are you sure about this?"

"Yes, I'm fucking sure, why wouldn't I be sure?" Arthur barked, pulling at Eames' belt. "Take off your pants."

"Because I," Eames tried to say, dragging off his shirt and pulling Arthur into another kiss which whited out sound, "I don't usually do this… but you are just so..." He broke off with a frustrated sound and Arthur ground their hips together.

"Christ, Arthur." He kissed his way up Arthur's neck. "I should have bought a lottery ticket. I didn't think you'd want to do this."

Arthur pulled back. "Do _you _not want to do this?"

Eames barked a laugh. "Oh, I very much do. Look at you," he said, reeling Arthur back in. "All posh and lovely," he kissed down Arthur's neck to bite at his clavicle, "and way out of my league."

Arthur snorted and shoved Eames' pants past his hips.

As they hit the floor with a clatter of his belt buckle, Eames grinned and cocked an eyebrow. "You sure you'll respect me in the morning, darling?"

"I'll respect you right here on this table if you'd shut up for five seconds," Arthur said. He spun them and pressed Eames back, biting at those maddingly delicious-looking lips. "And then I'll respect you again in the morning."

Eames looked delighted and hoisted himself onto the table, spreading his thighs and pulling Arthur between them. The tent in his boxer briefs was gorgeous. Arthur ran his fingers over it, learning size, shape, and heft. It was a very nice heft.

Eames opened his mouth to say something, and Arthur kissed him to keep him quiet. He swallowed Eames' groans as he let his fingers wander, dipping below the waistband and stroking over velvety skin. He took his time removing the rest of Eames' clothes, telling Eames to lift his hips one at a time so he could ease his underwear down and off, unwilling to be impeded in his explorations. Eames didn't seem to mind the orders, gray eyes dancing and his cheeks and lips pinkened. Beautiful.

Eames gripped the edge of the drafting table, every ounce of his attention focused on Arthur. It was a heady feeling and Arthur found himself grinning as he traced Eames' knees and inner thighs, closer and closer to the prize.

"Hands?" Arthur asked, "or mouth?" His voice came out low and rough, and Eames' breath hitched.

"Both, of course."

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. "Greedy."

Eames just grinned wolfishly. "I'll take whatever you—fucking hell," he said, sucking in air through his teeth as Arthur swallowed him down. "You are a talented man, Arthur, good _Christ_, I can't—"

Arthur pulled off with a noisy pop. "Mr. Eames?"

Eames was breathing hard. "Yes, darling?"

"It is now my goal to render you incapable of speech." Then he went to work.

Arthur bobbed on Eames' cock a few times, letting him hit the back of his throat and loving the way Eames' hips couldn't seem to sit still beneath him. He backed off in a long, slow slurp, Eames holding his breath, and let the tip rest against his lips as Eames remembered how to pull air into his lungs.

"Arthur… _fuck_."

Arthur worked his way down, feeling powerful, laving attention on Eames' balls, while he jacked him at the same time, slow and steady. Eames unclenched one fist from the edge of the table to drag it through Arthur's hair, his touch soft and reverent. When Arthur flicked his eyes up, Eames was staring, open-mouthed, and panting.

"Christ, Arthur, you feel bloody amazing, you do, and I—"

Arthur tightened his grip on Eames' cock and rose. He kept up his rhythm, that steady tug and smooth slide enough to make Arthur's own cock cry for release and dared Eames with his eyes to keep talking.

Eames' eyes narrowed mischievously and Arthur dipped down to taste the spread of tattoos before him. Bites and licks and careful worship of Eames' ink, and all the while that steady tug and slide. Eames' breath was starting to quicken as Arthur dragged his tongue over the nub of Eames' nipple. His hips started to cant and Eames' head dropped back.

"Arthur…" Eames breathed, and Arthur dropped to his knees in one smooth motion, his lips meeting his fist around Eames' cock, dark red and welling at the tip. Arthur devoured him, rocking with the movement of Eames' hips, pulling and sucking, wet and filthy.

"Oh, God, Arthur," Eames groaned, "faster. Please, darling…"

Arthur sped up, adding a slight twist at the end that was making Eames hiccup a cry every time, as his body tensed like a bowstring. Eames' thighs trembled as his hips chased Arthur's mouth, hands gripping the edge of the table and his head thrown back.

"Please, fuck, please," Eames strained, although Arthur didn't think he knew he was saying anything at all. He would start a sentence on every exhale, forgotten by the time he sucked in a breath. Arthur own hips jerked with the way Eames' voice broke, higher and tighter, until he spilled with a cry, and Arthur worked him through it and then licked him clean.

There were, Arthur decided, definite advantages to having such a noisy partner. New goal: to find out what other sounds Eames made.

* * *

Hot and fucked out, Arthur flopped back on the mattress, panting at the ceiling, his limbs refusing to work, while Eames mouthed kisses down his chest.

"God damn," Arthur breathed.

"Mmm," Eames agreed.

Arthur smiled euphorically at nothing and started to laugh. It started as a chuckle, just because he felt good, then giggles rolled out of his belly until he couldn't breathe.

Eames' mouth grinned against his skin. "What's so funny, pet?"

He beamed down at him, fingers in his hair. "Nothing," he admitted. "Just… that was great. You were great."

"Mmm," Eames hummed again and kissed his nipple. "Pretty bloody brilliant yourself, darling."

A rush of contentedness washed over him as Eames snuggled into his side, their sweaty chests sticking together and their legs tangled in the sheets, and he closed his eyes to try to memorize this moment so he could keep it.

* * *

_Oh, Arthur, don't be silly!_

Arthur sat bolt upright in bed, panic filling his lungs as he kicked blindly at whatever was holding him down, keeping him from getting to her, keeping him from—

"Arthur?" Eames sat up, blinking blearily but awake in seconds. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

He was pulling the sheets aside to stand, even as Arthur was waving him down.

"No, sorry, sorry, I'm fine. It's fine," he said, stomach dropping as he realized he'd been kicking _Eames._ "Just a dream."

But Eames was already up and leaving the bedroom, moonlight lovingly tracing over his nakedness.

"Eames," Arthur called, "it's _fine_." He scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing away the memory. "What is he doing?"

A few seconds later, Eames returned, wearing his underwear and carrying a glass of water.

"Everything is locked, Frank is fine," he said, climbing back in and handing him the glass. He settled himself back against the headboard and draped the sheets over his lap. "Now," he said, holding out his arm. "Tell me."

Arthur stared at him, but he just sat patiently, waiting for Arthur to lean against him. He looked down into the glass, taking a shaky drink and then setting it on the bedside table. Slowly, he sank into Eames' side, tucked into the safety of a tattooed arm stroking comforting brushes over his skin.

"That's better," Eames murmured. "Tell us what your dream was about, hmm?"

Arthur felt silly but too raw not to take comfort in Eames' embrace. "Oh, just… you know. Stuff."

Eames didn't say anything, but he leaned his cheek on the top of Arthur's head and didn't stop the casual touches, and Arthur was grateful.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Eames asked eventually, his voice quiet.

Arthur shook his head, and Eames shifted down in the bed, dragging Arthur with him. When they were face to face, close enough to feel Eames' breath on his cheek, Eames started talking.

"Do you remember Buzz?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Your assistant? How could I forget?"

Eames' lips quirked up and Arthur found himself staring at them. He was really, truly beautiful.

"Buzz was a rescue dog. Well, not really a rescue. His owners brought him in because he had stopped urinating, and we had to do an x-ray. Turned out he had a blockage, which he passed, and he got put on a special diet to prevent any future issues."

"Is he okay now?" Arthur asked.

"Safe as houses, love," Eames assured him, which Arthur assumed was good. "But his owners never found that part out. They just saw the bill and never came back to pick him up."

"Jesus." Arthur felt a little ill. "Does that happen a lot?"

Eames shrugged with his mouth. "Not in our office," he said. "But it didn't happen to me. It happened to Buzz. And he was the one who had to deal with it, even though he didn't do anything wrong."

Arthur gave him a flat look. "So you're saying shit happens, but I shouldn't be upset because I didn't do anything wrong."

Eames chuckled and his eyes crinkled up. Beautiful.

"It's not a fable, darling. I'm telling you how I met Buzz. And I wouldn't presume to tell you how to feel."

"Uh huh," Arthur said dryly. "Well, I appreciate that, Dr. Eames."

"_Tsk_," Eames said. "Doctor? Really? When I'm in my pants and you're naked?"

"Mmm," Arthur said, sliding their legs together. "Mister."

Eames kissed him softly. "Better." Then he kissed him again, longer, deeper, until Arthur had to pull away.

"Eames," he breathed.

And Eames smiled against his mouth. "Best."


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur woke up feeling fuzzy and disoriented, the light outside his curtains telling him it was far too early to be awake. But his limbs felt oddly achy and— oh. Shit.

"Eames?" He sat straight up, everything rushing back to him, but the only sign he hadn't hallucinated last night was a half-drunk glass of water on the nightstand.

"Ah, fuck," Arthur muttered to himself. Fuck. Of _course_ Eames was gone. Well, so much for a summer fling. More like a summer one night stand. He always did this, god fucking damn it, he was such a screw up. He was definitely going to have to find a new vet for Frank, someone who wasn't going to look at him like he was insane when he brought in a goldfish. Oh shit, Frank.

Arthur pulled on a pair of gym shorts to check on him.

"Morning, Frank, how'd you make out last night? Better than me, I hope," he mumbled, reaching for the fish food.

"Aw, now," the voice behind him said, making him jump. "It wasn't so bad, was it, pet?"

Arthur spun to see Eames handing him a mug of steaming coffee with a mischievous look. "Jesus fucking Christ," Arthur gusted. "You scared the shit out of me." He took the mug, feeling his face heat abysmally. "I thought you'd left."

Eames was wearing his boxer briefs and his unbuttoned shirt, and he looked good enough to eat. He raised an amused eyebrow at Arthur and sipped his own mug. "Left? After you promised to respect me again in the morning?" He gave him a reproachful look. "Who in their right mind would do that?"

Arthur ducked his head, face flaming, and grinned. "Yeah, well."

Eames turned. "Your trousers were buzzing, so I grabbed your mobile for you." He passed it over. "Who is 'The Knob'? Anyone I should be jealous of?"

"Oh," Arthur said, taking it. "That's my boss. Jesus, what time is it?" he said, checking his watch. "I'd better call him back. I'll just…"

"Go," Eames said, taking the mug back. "Must be important."

"It better be," Arthur muttered, escaping into the living room.

"Arthur!" came Dom's voice before it had finished ringing. "How's it going? Listen, I've got great news."

"Oh?"

"Old Man Fischer died!"

"... Oh," Arthur croaked out. "God, Dom…"

"I know! Which means Robert will get to move up, and I talked to Browning today, and he says I'm a shoo-in for Robert's position."

Arthur sat on the couch. "Uh, wow. Dom. That's, that's great. Great news. Congratulations."

"Bet your ass. I'm taking the day off, you're taking the day off, we're all taking the day off. Hey, do you want to get drinks tonight?"

"Oh, um," Arthur stuttered into the phone. The phone case creaked in his hand and he unclenched his fingers. "I don't know if I—"

"Oh, hey, you know what, I'm getting a call. Raincheck on those drinks, 'kay? After all, I should probably wait until they offer it to me, hahahaha!"

"Heh. Right."

"Perfect, Arthur, you're the b—"

The call ended and Arthur looked at the phone in his hand.

"Everything alright, darling?"

Arthur turned to see Eames, pants on but shirt still unbuttoned, thick hands cradling his mug. "What?"

"Some sort of architect emergency?"

"Oh," Arthur said, remembering the phone in his hand and setting it carefully on the coffee table. "Not really. I guess I have the day off."

Eames made an interested hum around the rim of his mug. "Why do you sound miserable about that?"

Arthur swallowed and looked away and felt more than saw Eames come into the living room. When he settled onto the couch next to him, Arthur looked up into concerned eyes and felt it tumble out of him.

"It's just me being stupid, just because someone died, and I didn't even know him personally. But Dom was practically _celebrating _because it means his dream job opens up, and he's giving us all the day off, and I _shouldn't_ be miserable, because it's not even someone I know, except…"

He stopped the flood of words with a grimace and Eames pressed his knee into Arthur's.

"Except… it reminds you of your mum."

Arthur's breath rushed out of him. "Yeah. Yeah, it does."

Eames nodded. "It was recent then? That she passed?" Arthur nodded and Eames sucked his lip. Then a look of dawning realization hit him. "Wait. Not to change the subject here, but… was that…" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the bedroom. "Did we just have funeral sex?"

Arthur wasn't familiar with the term, but he could figure it out. Let loose after a funeral. Remind yourself you're alive. He had personally been hoping for something a little less specific, but if he was being honest with himself, was "funeral sex" more accurate? He held his hands up helplessly. "I…"

Eames sat back. "Oh. Oh, I see." For the first time, Eames appeared self-conscious and subdued. "You know," he said, standing and setting his mug on the coffee table, "I actually should probably get going. I've got a full day of patients today."

Arthur stood also. "Oh. Alright."

"Excuse me."

Arthur watched him stupidly as he gathered pieces of clothing from the floor and put them on. He didn't know what to do with his hands.

"Eames, I—"

"Say goodbye to Frank for me, would you, darling?" Eames said, his voice breezy as he attempted to smooth his hair down. "And you be sure to get ahold of me if you need anything."

For the fish? Or for himself?

"Yes," Arthur said, holding the door as Eames opened it. "I will."

Eames grinned at him, a crooked and lovely grin, except that it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ta, then."

And then he was gone.

Arthur spent most of the day puttering around his apartment, stripping the bed, doing laundry, watching episodes he hadn't caught up on yet. It was loathsome.

"Frank," he said, head thunked onto the back of the couch. "What am I doing?" It had been a common question since Frank had shown up. "I should text him, right? Apologize. Except I didn't _actually _do anything wrong, so what am I apologizing for? I'm sorry I fucked you?" He glanced at the tank where Frank was bobbing gently. "Sorry. 'Had sex with you,'" he corrected. "But that's what people do, right? Even on regular dates. It's not because I was… it wasn't _funeral _sex. It was regular sex."

He took his phone out of the pocket of his shorts, typed out a message, and then deleted it. He paced until he ended up in front of Frank's tank. He took a seat. "So. No apologizing. Hell, maybe I should wait for him to text _me_. He's the one who left. Right?"

Frank's side was looking a little better in the week since he'd been to Eames' office the first time. He thought so anyway. He scrolled back through his conversation with Eames so he could compare it to the pictures he'd sent. Except he got caught up re-reading, and smiling, and his face heated, and before he knew it, he was trying to scroll to see what happened next, but there were no new messages and Arthur felt like he'd fucked up.

He checked his watch. "What's normal for a day-after-sex conversation, Frank?" No answer, so Arthur sighed and Googled it.

After thirty minutes, he shut his laptop. "Jesus, Frank, how is everyone on the internet an idiot?"

Frank agreed in his quiet way and Arthur smoothed his hair and started composing a text. It took several tries before he settled on:

—_Frank wanted to know if he would ever see you again. I didn't know what to tell him._

Slightly funny, but not too funny. That was good, right? Then he snapped a picture of Frank, only slightly blurry, curled his bare toes into the carpet, and hit Send.

He watched the screen for a few moments to see if the read status changed, but nothing happened. So with another smoothing of his hair, he put down the phone and decided to change Frank's water.

He rolled Eames' possible responses around in his head while he worked. His reply, hoping he got one, might be frosty, or even outright angry. But Arthur was guessing, based on the way Eames' face had dropped into a blank mask, like shutters latching into place, that he'd be very, very, neutral.

_Not sure,_ he would type, or maybe, _You never can tell._

Christ, with a reply like that, Arthur might almost prefer one with some shouting shoved in between the lines. _Only if you ring me after the next funeral._ Maybe he'd even have exclamation points, and then Arthur would know where he stood.

Arthur could probably chalk it up to a stupid one-night stand and try to move on after that, but he didn't know where to go with neutral. The thought made his gut clench.

Neutral Eames meant there was no summer fling, no group texts, and definitely no more sex, funeral or otherwise. Neutral Eames meant it was over. And that thought made him feel like crawling back in bed and pulling the covers over his head for a month.

Arthur dried his hands and checked his phone. The message was still marked as unread, so that was something, wasn't it? Maybe Eames really did have a full day of patients. Maybe he'd dropped his phone in the toilet. And maybe Arthur was _obsessing over this guy after one date what was WRONG with him?!_

He went for a run.

He dragged himself back through his door just as the sun was going down, wrung out and sweating, and he was collapsing on the couch with a belly full of water before he remembered to check his phone. But when he did…

—_Darling! I am appalled at you! Sending me racy pictures when you know I'm at work. There's not a stitch of clothing anywhere in that photo!_

Then there was a fish emoji and an eggplant emoji. Arthur's jaw dropped as he stared and stared at the response. Eames was... teasing him. Eames was _flirting_ with him! He read it again and it stayed the same. A shaky laugh burst out of him in relief.

"Frank, you are never going to believe what Eames is saying about you."

He hurried to type back, grateful he was even getting the chance.

—_Normally I would attempt to protect Frank's honor, but I don't think he's going to be happy with a purely professional relationship, no matter how high your integrity may be._

He hit Send before he could second-guess himself and bounced his knee as he waited for the reply. The three dots of anxiety appeared and Arthur put his phone down to wipe his palms on his shorts.

—_Your fish is exceedingly clever because naked pictures are definitely the way to my heart. Dinner Friday?_

Arthur collapsed on the couch, a grin stretching almost painfully wide on his face. With a flutter in his stomach that felt a lot like hope, he replied.

—_It's a date._

* * *

Arthur insisted on choosing the restaurant, and he'd be damned if they split the check this time. He pictured Eames' kind eyes while he took Frank's jar from him. Eames stroking his arm until he fell back to sleep. The happy thrill in the pit of his stomach whenever his phone buzzed. Eames deserved better than funeral sex or a summer fling.

So he wore his best suit, showed up early, tipped the maître d' generously, and held his breath. Eames deserved better than someone who fucked it up.

When Eames walked in, he was wearing an olive-colored jacket and two-tone shoes, and Arthur couldn't bring himself to be upset about it. He hadn't shaved, his hair had an unruly piece sticking up in the back, and he looked amazing. Arthur stood.

"Hi."

Eames smiled fondly at him. "Hello, darling. Is this a proper date, then?"

"It is," Arthur said, happy and nervous and relieved he'd even shown up. He grinned and held Eames' chair for him.

They fell into an easy rhythm as they ordered and ate, Eames asking Arthur questions about his interests and his history and sounding genuinely interested, and happy to answer Arthur's "what about you?"s. But Eames was sitting far back in his chair, legs crossed, and Arthur held a thread of apprehension in his shoulders, like there was a shoe left to drop.

"Arthur," Eames said during their after-dinner drinks, and Arthur tensed.

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

Arthur took a bracing swallow and said, "Yes, of course."

"I get the feeling that we had different ideas about what Monday was supposed to be." He was turning his glass on the tablecloth, casual and relaxed and his eyes sweeping the room as he talked.

Arthur didn't miss the way Eames avoided saying the word "date" and put his hands on the table. "Okay, look, I—"

"For example," Eames interrupted him, cool and pleasant, a small smile on his lips. "I thought, at the beginning of the night, you might not be interested in dating at all, so I was determined to take things slow. I mean, you said it yourself."

Arthur frowned his confusion.

"What did we really know about each other, hmm? Maybe you didn't want a relationship. It wasn't like I'd asked. So I decided just to be your friend, and see where we went from there."

Eames turned to Arthur now, his eyes intense and his pleasant facade gone. "But you didn't want a friend, did you? You just wanted a fuck."

Arthur swallowed.

"Did you even hear a single word I said all night long?"

Arthur gaped. "Of course I—"

"Did you have any intention of asking me out again?"

"_Yes_, Eames, I—"

"Did I in some way indicate to you that I was interested in something short-term? Is that what you think of me?"

"No, of—"

"Would you have cared what I wanted, if it had crossed your mind to think about it for two _bloody seconds_?"

Eames' voice had risen and they were getting looks from the other patrons.

Arthur licked his lips. "Okay," he said, holding up his hands, "you're right. Okay? You're absolutely right. I was a total asshole, and I'm sorry."

Eames didn't appear any calmer, eyes still narrowed and nostrils flared. His lips pressed together in a tight line and Arthur wished he could touch him.

"I know I fucked up," he admitted, "and that's why I wanted to do this right tonight. Not start over, necessarily, because I really liked Monday, and, you know, Monday night," he said, and Eames shot him an unimpressed look. "But I really like you, okay?"

Eames considered him, his jaw still set in stone, and then he raised his eyebrows and took a slow drink.

"I mean," Arthur said, "I like all of you. Not just the Monday night stuff."

Eames waited.

"At first," Arthur admitted slowly, "I thought I wanted, I don't know, a summer fling or something." He chanced a glance at Eames, who gave him a very unsurprised look. "But," Arthur insisted, "I was wrong. I don't want that. I, you know, _actually_ like you."

Eames sighed and leaned forward to fold his hands on the table. "Well, I'm glad to hear that, Arthur," he said gravely. "Because I actually like you too."

Arthur grimaced. "I think that might be more than I deserve."

Eames looked down at the table and said softly, "Oh, I don't think that's true at all."

And Arthur didn't know what to say to that.

Eames considered him. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Yeah, sure," Arthur agreed. But he took a drink first.

"Have you seen the new Marvel movie, and would you like to go see it tomorrow?"

Arthur huffed a laugh of disbelief and said, "Really? You're going to let us start over?"

"No, Arthur. Not start over. But I would like to get to know you better."

"Uh, yeah, I would like that. Yes. Please."

Then Eames grinned at him, that same charming, wonky grin. "Brilliant. It's a date."

Arthur ducked his head in response, his own grin of relief on his face. Eames was a gentleman. Handsome, accomplished, flirty, and a gentleman. Arthur was sorry he hadn't seen it before.

They parted ways at the restaurant, a searing kiss before Arthur ducked into the waiting cab. Eames spun his keys on his finger as he watched Arthur drive away, a smug look on his face.

Arthur was determined not to fuck it up this time. He could be a gentleman. He could be more of a gentleman than Eames, if he wanted. He could out-gentleman anyone, anywhere. He'd be the best gentleman in the whole damn world.

Which, of course, meant Eames looked completely gorgeous when he showed up to the movie. Instead of the loose and casual slacks and button downs Arthur was expecting, Eames was wearing jeans that molded to his thighs, and a v-neck t-shirt showing off ink. Asshole.

So when Eames came up to greet him with a grin, Arthur blurted out, "I'm not going to sleep with you." He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince. A family nearby looked at them, the mother glaring.

Eames raised his eyebrows, an amused look on his face. "Hello to you too."

Arthur glanced around him and steered Eames toward the popcorn line. "I mean," he said, in a hushed tone, "I want to get to know you too. I care about other stuff than just _that_. So I just wanted to put out there that I wasn't going to, you know, try anything."

Eames looked even more like he was suppressing a laugh, and Arthur pushed down his frustration. He was trying to do the right thing, here.

"Very appreciated, darling," Eames said with a grin. "Would you like snacks?"

Arthur scowled the whole time Eames bought popcorn and led them to their seats, but as they settled, Eames grabbed his hand and nuzzled a kiss onto his neck, and Arthur blinked.

"What was that for?" he asked in surprise.

"You smell good," Eames said easily. "Popcorn?"

Arthur took a handful, still mindful of where Eames' lips had touched his skin. Just a kiss. For no reason. The lights dimmed and he chanced a glance at Eames. His profile was lit in the blue light from the screen and Arthur felt a clench in his chest. He studied the shape of Eames' nose, his chin, his throat.

Eames dragged his gaze from the previews and shot Arthur a concerned look. "Everything alright?" he whispered.

Arthur swallowed. "Yeah," he whispered back. "Yeah. I'm good."

He tried to focus on the screen and when the final credits rolled, he was fairly sure he could come up with the main plot points in an emergency, so he called it a success. Eames casually grabbed his hand as they left the lobby and led him down the sidewalk, strolling in the starlight and streetlights.

After a few blocks, Arthur asked, "So, where are we going, exactly?"

"Exactly?" Eames asked with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. He rattled off an address, and Arthur frowned.

"And what's there?"

"A slightly overpriced flat and a slightly nosy neighbor we're going to have to dodge," Eames said. "We're going back to mine, Arthur," he added at Arthur's continued frown. "It's not far, so I walked."

"But I said I wasn't going to try anything," Arthur protested, drawing to a halt.

Eames cocked his head. "And I heard you," he said. He tugged Arthur forward anyway. "Come on."

True to his word, Eames eased open the entrance and held a finger to his lips as he tiptoed exaggeratedly past the first door in the hallway. Arthur followed him, an amused smile on his lips, and watched him grimace as the door cracked anyway.

"Eames?" a cloud of gray hair in a house robe asked. "Are you back already?"

Eames widened his eyes at Arthur in a "what did I tell you?" gesture and smiled at the elderly woman. "Yes, Mrs. Fitz. Just heading in."

"Is this your young man? Well, let me look at him." She stepped out of her doorway and Arthur caught a glimpse of doilies and flower patterns behind her.

Eames cleared his throat and looked at Arthur apologetically. "Arthur, this is Mrs. Fitz, my neighbor and the love of my life."

She tsked Eames with a purse of her lips and took Arthur by the elbows. She peered up at him, and Arthur had the impression he was supposed to open his mouth so she could inspect his teeth.

"What is your last name, Arthur?"

"Cohen, ma'am."

"Are you Jewish?"

"My family is."

She gave him a look reminiscent of his mother. "But are you?"

He refused to look guilty as he admitted, "No, ma'am."

She hummed and looked him over, head to toe. "Are you all the way gay or one of those half and half people?"

Eames shifted uncomfortably and said, "Alright, that's—"

"All the way," Arthur said. "But those aren't the only two distinctions, as it happens."

She looked mildly intrigued but just patted him on the cheek. "Just like my Jimmy. Alright, then. Are you boys being safe? Sexually, I mean."

Eames closed his eyes. "Jesus Christ."

Arthur couldn't help but grin at the pink color Eames was turning. "Yes, ma'am."

She nodded with finality. "Good. Because I was alive in the '80s, you know, even if you weren't. And I remember reading—"

"OH-KAY," Eames announced, pulling Arthur away. "We're going to go now, thank you for embarrassing the shite out of me, Mrs. Fitz, and have a lovely evening, my dear."

He tugged Arthur down the hall, and Mrs. Fitz dropped Arthur a sly wink as soon as Eames wasn't looking. Arthur grinned so hard it hurt.

Eames struggled to get his door unlocked quickly, as if Mrs. Fitz was going to charge after them, and Arthur had to chew on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Eames let out a sigh of relief when he crossed his own threshold, and Arthur had never wanted to kiss someone so badly.

And then a battering ram of excited fur hit him in the legs.

"Oof, oh, hi, Buzz," Arthur said, patting him as Buzz tried very hard to keep all four paws on the ground, his tongue out and his entire back end wagging.

"Come in," Eames said, closing the door behind them. "Make yourself at home. I'll just put the kettle on."

He ducked around a corner to what Arthur presumed was a kitchen and Buzz took the opportunity to put his paws on Arthur's chest and lick every scrap of skin Arthur had showing.

"Okay, okay, buddy," Arthur whispered. "Yes, you're a good boy, but I don't think Eames wants you to jump on people."

Buzz's tail moved double-time at the words 'good boy' and Arthur set him back down with a ruffle to his ears and only a furtive look at his suit. He looked around as Buzz sniffed the cuff of his pants with excitement. Eames' apartment was the opposite of his in every conceivable way. Squashy overstuffed furniture crowded the living room, and there were doors and hallways everywhere instead of his empty, open floor plan. Eames' furniture appeared to be brown and black, but it didn't matter because there were three colorful, crocheted blankets folded on the back of the couch and a sheet spread out on one half of the cushions, clearly marking Buzz's spot. A small table in the corner looked to serve as both dining room and office, and on every wall there was art. Framed prints and canvases thick with paint were side-by-side with crayon drawings of "ME AND UNKL EAMES" on lined notebook paper.

Arthur took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the office/dining room chair and took a seat on the part of the couch not covered with dog fur. Buzz immediately jumped up and turned to fwump down next to him, resting his head on Arthur's thigh.

Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at his dramatic sigh. "Did you have a rough day at the office today, Buzz?"

Buzz looked up at his name and the sound of his tail hitting the couch was loud.

"I am so sorry about that, Arthur," Eames said, bustling in with two teacups and handing him one. "She cornered me on my way out the door and I should have realized she would be lying in wait for me to get back." He took the armchair and waved at Buzz. "Get down, you pest, Arthur doesn't want you on him."

"It's alright," Arthur murmured into the rim of his cup, and he meant it. "I don't mind Buzz. Or Mrs. Fitz. Should I just go ahead and assume she's already tried to set you up with 'her Jimmy'?"

Eames snorted. "Only every time he visits. Except 'her Jimmy' is in a long-term relationship with his married professor and has no interest in telling his grandmother about it, for some reason."

"Can't imagine why," Arthur said, and set down his cup and saucer on the end table with a smile. The coaster there was well-ringed and faded and Arthur realized he was in Eames' usual spot. "But, uh, it's sort of good, I suppose. I'm glad there's someone looking out for you."

Eames set his cup back in his saucer and looked at him oddly until Arthur frowned, wondering what he'd said.

"I suppose I should thank her," Eames said. "She found out quite a bit about you I didn't dare ask."

Arthur frowned some more. "You can ask me anything you like, Eames. We're getting to know each other."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that right? Okay, then. What are your nightmares about?"

Arthur stilled, his fingers resting behind Buzz's ears. He hadn't realized he'd been petting him. "Wow. My nightmares. That's intense. Is this some kind of test?"

Eames looked shocked he would ask such a thing, and for some reason, it made Arthur angry.

"No, of course—"

"I thought you were going to ask me about my religious upbringing, or my sexual preferences or something, Eames. What are you, a part-time therapist?"

Eames' jaw clenched and his eyes turned steely-gray. "No, but if I was, I might say you are deflecting. Or trying to change the subject. Or trying to push me away so you don't have to talk about something difficult."

It was Arthur's turn to grind his teeth together, and for a moment, they sat in Eames' very comfortable living room glaring at each other. Then Buzz sighed again and yawned.

"Fuck." Arthur rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. "Fuck, you're right, okay? Sorry. And, no, I _don't _really want to talk about it."

Eames looked bewildered. "Well, that's all you had to say, Arthur. This is a date, not the Spanish Inquisition. Jesus. What kind of person do you think I am?"

Arthur threw his hands up and stared at his knees.

"I don't even know what you don't want to talk about," Eames muttered. "Do you have PTSD from your time in the military? Were you abducted by wolves as a child? Are you scared of the dark? Do you occasionally have to suppress your desire to go on killing sprees? Who knows! Not me!"

Eames drank his tea grumpily, as much as one can look grumpy holding a cup and saucer and sipping out of it. Arthur felt his lips twitch.

"Well, now I'm just depressed it's not actually as interesting as any of that."

Eames set his cup back down but his frustration was still firmly in place. Arthur sighed.

"It's always the same nightmare. They started after my mom died."

Eames watched him, waiting, but he didn't look angry anymore.

Arthur petted the dog and talked to the top of Buzz's head. "It's not really anything that happens in the dream," he tried to explain, stomach starting to clench as he remembered. "It's more of a feeling. Like a sense of dread. I feel trapped and I can't move. Everything gets darker and darker, and then I hear my mom's voice. She's laughing, and she says," he licked his lips. "Well, she always says the same thing. Something she told me the last time I talked to her."

Eames stood up from the armchair and pushed Buzz unceremoniously off the couch. Buzz got down with an offended huff and claimed the armchair, daring Eames to tell him no. Eames ignored him and sat on the couch next to Arthur, a calm, reassuring presence. He didn't speak, just sat by him as Arthur tried to say it out loud.

Arthur took a steadying breath. "She told me she was sick, but that I didn't need to come home because I couldn't take care of a goldfish."

"Oh, Arthur," Eames breathed. He reached for Arthur's hand and Arthur took it, grateful for the warm, dry fingers twined with his own.

"I mean, when she said it, she was teasing me, and we both laughed. But I can't stop… thinking…"

He broke off when his throat refused to let any more words through, and Eames put an arm around him, pulling him close. He shushed as he pressed his mouth against Arthur's temple and Arthur let himself sink into his embrace. It was awful, and somewhat of a relief, but mostly awful, to relive the nightmare while awake. He felt ripped open and raw, and he hated it. He opened his eyes at the whine by his feet, and Buzz thumped his tail on the floor and put his head on Arthur's knee.

Eames sat beside him, one arm around his shoulders, fingers stroking his hair, and the other holding his hand. Arthur wiped his nose and sniffed.

"So these nightmares," Eames said quietly. "You don't think your mother is blaming you, do you?"

Arthur was shaking his head even before Eames got done speaking. "No, I don't. I mean, _I_ feel like I should have done more, of course. But I realize it would only have been more of a help to Alex, not my mom. The doctors told her she had a few months, which she didn't tell me, but I couldn't have done anything. And anyway, it, it ended up being more like a few weeks."

Arthur's voice pinched off and he turned so he could see Eames' face. "Look, I know in my head I couldn't have saved her. I _know_ that. I'm not an idiot. But I just, I keep having this dream."

Eames squeezed his hand. "Because you're sad, darling. That's totally normal."

"But I'm not," Arthur protested. "I mean, I am sad, of course I'm sad. But the _dream_ isn't sad. It's terrifying. I wake up sweating and shaking and… well, you were there."

"Yes, I suppose I was, at that," Eames admitted. His hand joined Arthur's in petting Buzz's head, and Buzz leaned into the contact. "Alright, so what are you afraid of? Not in the dream, when you're awake."

Arthur frowned and thought about it. The quiet terror of the darkness in his dream, the sinking feeling at the sound of his mother's voice. "I don't know, just, missing something, I guess. Letting someone else down. Not doing what I'm supposed to do and something bad happens because of it."

Eames ran his thumb over the back of Arthur's hand.

Arthur swallowed and made an effort to reel everything back in. "Anyway. I am going to stop talking about it now. Promise."

Eames stopped petting the dog and grasped Arthur's hand in both of his, turning it over and opening Arthur's palm. "You don't have to stop on my account, love. It's good to get it out."

Arthur tried to smile past the rawness. "Yeah? Doctor's orders?"

Eames smiled and kissed the center of Arthur's palm. "Indeed. Apply liberally. Call me in the morning."

Then he kissed Arthur, and it would have been very ungentlemanly not to kiss him back, his heart between his teeth and a dog's head on his knee.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur came out of yet another meeting which should have been an email to a message from Mal in the group text.

—_Arthur which do you prefer, black or brown?_

Arthur, amused, texted back.

—_For what?_

—_Anything. Shoes, toast, men. Just pick one._

—_Brown. Why?_

—_Because I'm tired of hearing about it._

Arthur raised his eyebrows at that but Eames didn't weigh in, and he had a few things to finish up on the Stanover redesign. This would be, he assumed, the one project he worked on as both architect and supervisor, and he was excited. Robert's promotion had been announced last week, and this would be the week they conducted "interviews" before the "decision" was made on who moved up a spot. But Arthur had worked here for a long time, and everyone already knew.

The next time his phone pinged, it was a picture from Eames; a snap of Buzz, nose-to-nose with a bunny on the floor of the exam room.

—_Sorry, Arthur. Buzz's new favorite is this lop._

He laughed and texted back.

—_Brb, upping my game._

Mal sent three rows of heart-eye emojis and Arthur couldn't lie, he loved getting Eames' vet snaps. And he knew Eames was busy and at work, but he couldn't help being a little disappointed he was getting group chat snaps and no commentary. He took a picture of his empty coffee mug with the caption #Betrayal and Eames responded with a laughing emoji right away, so he switched to Eames' DMs.

—_Hey._

—_Hey yourself, darling._

Arthur bounced his knee a few times, then typed —_Thanks for listening last night._

—_Anytime._ was the immediate response, and Arthur wasn't sure how to take that. He waited to see if there was anything else, but then someone came in asking questions and he didn't get back to his phone for almost an hour. When he did, there were 15 unread messages in the group chat and one in his DMs.

—_I'd like to take you out again._

Arthur realized he was grinning widely at his phone when there was a knock on his door jamb and he had to school his face into some semblance of normal. It might have been too late though, judging from their anxious look. When he finally got rid of them, he texted back,

—_Yeah? Something a little less morose this time?_

—_Laser tag it is. Are you any good?_

Arthur laughed. —_Ah fuck. :( I'm amazing :( I'm really sad about how badly I'm going to kick your ass. You'll be so humiliated you won't want to see me again. :( :(_

Eames just sent back an "LOL," and Arthur really felt he'd given him sufficient warning. It wasn't his fault if Eames didn't heed it.

—_Drinks at my place afterward? _Arthur offered. Then followed up immediately with —_I promise not to try anything._

There was about a half-hour delay before he got Eames' response.

—_I make no such promises, darling._

* * *

Arthur slunk through the maze crafted out of foam blocks and packing crates, at one with the blackness. His laser gun held at the ready, he strafed around corners, his ears tuned to his prey, every one of his senses on high alert. Eames, on the other hand, was large and loud, and had worn cologne and a linen jacket for "post-laser-tag-drinks, darling." He was basically a beacon in the dark, even without the laser tag vest. Arthur grinned.

He was crouching next to a stack of boxes looking for Arthur in the completely wrong direction, and Arthur felt a warm glow somewhere in his chest. God, he was terrible at this. Arthur, however, had had a group of friends in school who'd gone out once a week to play and were all just competitive enough they couldn't stop until they got their names on the leaderboard. He was currently up six kills to Eames' zero and was starting to feel a little bad.

He ducked back around his dark corner with a sigh. Maybe he could let Eames get one shot in. With his foot, he moved the stack of crates next to him and lowered his weapon. Then he waited.

Eames' approach was quieter than he anticipated, and Arthur didn't hear him until Eames was right on top of him. He waited for the buzz indicating he'd been hit, but what he got instead was the bulk of a veterinarian who was terrible at laser tag pushing him up against the wall. The air whooshed out of him with a grunt and all he could see was Eames' excited grin flashing.

"Found you," Eames rumbled, and Arthur couldn't quite suppress his smile.

"It's not hide and seek, Eames," he chastised, but Eames was pressing up against him, his hands finding his hips. "Are you even holding your gun?"

"Oh, that's not my gun, darling."

Arthur rolled his eyes but slotted his leg between Eames' anyway. He was warm and solid, and his mouth was _right there_, and Arthur had been thinking about kissing him the whole night. Ever since he'd shown up in that ridiculous jacket, needing help with the laser tag vest, Arthur was cursing his promise to be a gentleman. But if Eames was going to start it, he had no problem finishing it.

"If this is how you take down all your opponents, I'm glad we didn't play against anyone else," Arthur said, their breaths mixing in the dark. Eames canted their hips together and Arthur bit back a groan. God, Eames was infuriating, and he was far too wound up by the way Eames was looking at him like that. Then Eames bent to run his lips over Arthur's neck and Arthur was _done._ He melted into Eames, grateful for the wall behind him and tipped his head back, silently begging for more. And Eames obliged, one hand cupping his ass and groping, pulling them together, and kissing him in a way that made the world around them disappear.

Which, of course, was when Eames shot him in the chest.

The buzz of his vest made him freeze, and he pulled back to see that wonky smile beaming at him in the dark.

"You bastard," Arthur growled, and Eames giggled with glee, jumping back and dashing away.

"All's fair, darling," he said over his shoulder, and Arthur gave himself a moment to try and will himself into a presentable state.

Two could play at that game.

* * *

"I can't believe you got me banned from the laser tag place," Arthur griped on their way to the car.

"Me!?" Eames grinned. "You were the one undoing my belt when they turned the lights on, love."

Arthur scowled in response because that was true and yet still not his fault because Eames had been _sucking on his ear_ and what exactly was he supposed to do?

Eames hadn't gotten any more kills in, but to be honest neither had Arthur, who had been so thoroughly distracted he might not have even noticed if Eames had. He had a feeling Eames didn't mind so much.

Arthur unlocked the car and slipped into the driver's seat, only to be confronted with an armful of Eames as soon as he closed the door. The bigger man pushed the air out of him as he crowded into Arthur's space, kissing him breathless in record time.

"Eames," he gusted, fingers tangled in his hair, sipping at those beautiful lips.

"Sorry about the laser tag," Eames said in between kisses, and Arthur huffed a laugh across his mouth.

"Worth it," he said, and Eames seemed to agree. His hands pulled Arthur's shirt from his slacks, warm palms sliding over his skin and lighting fires wherever he touched. "Fuck, you feel so good," Arthur confessed in the humid confines of his car.

Eames just hummed, low and husky, and rasped his stubble over Arthur's jaw.

Arthur wanted more, wanted to be able to touch, see, taste with abandon. But all he could do was hang on as Eames moved over his body, dropping kisses and leaving fingerprints in frustrating and delicious places.

"I want," Eames said, kissing him, "to absolutely, fucking, wreck you."

Jesus fucking Christ. Arthur tried to catch his breath. "My place is 15 minutes away," he said, licking his lips and hoping Eames would have a better idea. Like the idea that was straying closer and closer to his erection.

But Eames backed up, flushed and breathing just as hard as Arthur. He gave him a devilish grin. "Mine is ten. Drive Arthur. Drive really, really fast."

Arthur nodded frantically. "Yeah."

They made it in eight.

* * *

Arthur woke up in the middle of the night to Buzz jumping on the bed and trying to burrow unnoticed into the space between them. He groaned and tried to scoot closer to the edge of the bed to give the big dog more room.

Eames stirred. "Do you want him out?" he sleep mumbled. "I can put him out."

"No, 's fine," Arthur slurred into his pillow. "I like it," and went back to sleep.

In the morning, when Arthur woke for real, Eames was talking quietly to Buzz in the kitchen, and there was, thankfully, the smell of coffee. God, Arthur felt hungover. Could you get a hangover from too much good sex? He smirked to himself as he staggered to the bathroom. He had nothing against finding out.

"Good morning," Eames said lightly, pushing a mug across the counter. "How did you sleep?"

It was nice, polite, and kind. Which was fine, but Arthur didn't want that. He wanted what Eames had offered the first morning, the morning he'd fucked it all up. He wanted rumpled, soft Eames, looking at him mischievously and asking to get respected again. Arthur ignored the coffee and pushed himself into Eames' arms.

"Mmm," Arthur hummed into his neck. "I slept with you."

Eames chuckled and obliged Arthur's request for a hug. "You did, at that. And how was it?"

Arthur pulled back, and there, there was the mischievous look he'd been angling for. He raised an eyebrow. "It included a dog if I remember correctly."

"Oi! That was after!" Eames squawked. "And you said you liked it!"

Arthur laughed. "I did?" He dropped a kiss on Eames' throat, just above his collar. "Well, there was a part there where I wasn't completely coherent."

"Oh yeah? Which part was that?"

Eames was running his hands over Arthur with a little more intent, and Arthur lost the thread of what they were talking about. He stroked over Eames' scruffy beard and kissed him, coffee and morning breath be damned. He was so wrong when he thought he wanted a fling. He didn't want a fling. He wanted this. Flings were stupid. Flings didn't give you the look Eames was giving him as he backed him into the bedroom, with an intensity that said, "I will make you completely incoherent for the rest of the day, I swear it."

Eames stripped off his shirt and Arthur made sure the door was shut despite Buzz's puppy-dog eyes. Then he slipped his fingers in the waistband of Eames' sleep pants and worked them off. He wasn't hard yet, not completely, and Arthur maneuvered him back until he was sitting on the bed. Arthur dropped to his knees and got his mouth around him, loving the feel of Eames stiffening under his ministrations. He worked his tongue under Eames' foreskin and stroked him firmly, shouldering his legs apart.

"Fuck's sake," Eames groaned and dropped back onto his elbows, head lolling and eyes shut.

God, Arthur wanted to bring him off like this. Eames was gorgeous, coiled muscles and tattooed skin in the morning sunlight. But Arthur also wanted more. He wanted to press Eames into the mattress with his weight, watch his eyes, and show him that he wanted this.

When Eames was panting and his hips were twitching, Arthur pulled back. "Hey, grab that," he told him, gesturing with his chin to the lube on the nightstand. Eames lay back and stretched as far as he was able, but it was well out of reach.

"Ugh, it's so far away. Feel free to continue while I get it."

With a mock sigh and an eye roll, Arthur gave him one final lick before he got up and retrieved it and a condom from the drawer. He was back between Eames' knees and admiring the view as Eames moved up to give him room.

"This okay?" he asked, even as Eames drew his knee up.

"Better than, pet," Eames said with a grin.

Arthur knelt on the bed and worked the condom on himself, fingers steadier than they'd been last night. For the first time in a long time, he knew what he wanted.

Eames hissed in a breath at the touch of his fingers slicked with cold lube, and Arthur kissed him, tongue plundering as he teased and breached, distracting him and sliding them together. He couldn't get enough of Eames' skin, his body pressed against his own. Close wasn't close enough. He wanted to melt them together, create enough heat that they fused just like this, Eames spread wide and Arthur's lips worshiping everything he could reach.

With each roll of his hips, he sank into Eames, clasping their hands together and resting his forehead on Eames'. God, he was so beautiful. Slow, he chanted to himself. Slow, slow, slow. You've got time. He's not going anywhere.

He pulled back to look at Eames, blue-gray eyes rolling and a little wild, but when they met his, Arthur's heart clenched.

"I…"

Arthur surged forward to kiss Eames and stop the insane words threatening to tumble from his mouth.

Eames groaned into his mouth, the change in angle apparently hitting all the right spots and before Arthur could catch up, Eames' was arching into him with a shout and coating them both in his spend.

"Jesus," Eames wheezed, "Jesus, Arthur, I'm sorry, I…" He collapsed on the bed, limp and wrung out. "Just, give me a tick and I'll suck you or… Jesus. Something. Fuck."

"It's okay," Arthur murmured, kissing his neck. "It's okay."

He held Eames as they caught their breath, trying not to think. Eames made a noise as he softened and pulled out, and Arthur kissed him again. He didn't want to stop kissing him. He didn't want to stop doing anything with Eames and what the _hell was wrong with him_?

"Gnngh, that was…" Eames breathed. He sighed, contentedly, eyes closed, and Arthur stood up. He took in the sight of naked Eames, drifting towards sleep, fucked out and happy, and pulled the sheet over him.

"I'm just going to grab a shower," Arthur said, and Eames hummed, but he wasn't sure he'd heard him.

He felt a surge of anger at himself as he washed. This was just an infatuation or something. He just needed a little bit of time away from Eames because he'd clearly been thinking about him too much. He'd just take a step back and get his shit together and it would be fine. Eames didn't even have to know. And Arthur would still be able to see him, still be able to fuck him. He'd just have to keep it together, that's all.

Eames was asleep when he got out, but Buzz was dancing at the door, begging to be allowed in. Arthur complied, smiling and shaking his head as Buzz immediately jumped on the bed and curled next to Eames. When he let himself out of Eames' apartment with a quiet snick of the door, he promised himself he was done thinking about him for at least the rest of the day.

He made it until he got home to feed Frank, hand going to his phone to take yet another blurry picture of his fish. And, if he was being honest with himself, it had been a very deliberate train of thought which had kept his brain for settling on Eames.

Eames made him happy, he relented. Since his mom had died, hell, even before then, it had been a while since he'd felt like this. In the short amount of time he'd known Eames, he'd felt—

Arthur broke off his line of thinking. He wasn't going to examine his feelings, not when they were still counting the number of _weeks_ they'd been dating. He was going to go for a run and then eat an entire bag of Cheetos, and he wasn't going to feel guilty about it. Then he was going to take a nap and pick up his dry cleaning and then sit down with a book and a cup of tea. Except not tea because that made him think of Eames. See? This was totally doable.

Except mid-bag of Cheetos, Dom called him and he ended up working from home for the rest of the weekend. When Eames texted him later that night, he wasn't even lying when he replied that he was swamped and hating Dom's entire life, and he wished he was doing anything except this, but he really didn't have time to talk. Eames said he understood and he'd talk to him Monday, and Arthur left his kiss-face emoji text on unread because it gave him something to look forward to.

Monday was meeting after meeting where he thought about nothing but how Eames was probably texting him right now, and he was missing it to listen to these assholes and their stupid questions. Except he wasn't supposed to be thinking about Eames, so he pinched his leg and tried to pay attention. Except, was it really so bad to think about Eames _sometimes?_ He was still dating the man. He was allowed to enjoy him. Except that sent his brain on a tangent about enjoying Eames, which was definitely not conducive to constructive meetings and he was definitely thinking about Eames, so he practically sprinted from the conference room when they called for a break.

There were 37 messages in the group chat, and Arthur found himself grinning like an idiot as he read through them. He could picture Mal and Eames, one in the back and one in the front, teasing each other via text about how SOMEone must have had a good weekend, and how maybe if SOMEone would have good weekends more often, then SOMEone wouldn't complain about cleaning out the guinea pig cages so much. Hell, they might have been sitting right next to each other as they were typing.

Arthur felt a familiar and dangerous twinge in his chest area at that mental image and he put his phone down quickly. It chimed moments later, just as he was standing up to head back to the conference room, and he almost didn't pick it up.

But he did, and he saw that Mal had sent a photo. Without thinking, he clicked on it as he walked back into yet another meeting before he could finally get started on his work for the day.

The picture was taken from the top down of Eames lying on the ground, laughing, being crawled on by five cream-colored kittens.

Arthur stopped walking.

He found himself standing, stock-still, in the middle of the hallway, staring at his phone as people diverted around him.

His throat clicked as he tried to swallow past the lump there, and with shaking hands and an aching chest, he typed a quick text to Eames.

—_I think we should take a break for a while._

And then he went to a fucking meeting.

His phone buzzed in his pocket as they were starting back up, and Arthur made it a total of five minutes before he pulled it out under the table to check it.

—_Oh, really? Why's that?_

It was so casual and calm that it made Arthur scowl. He was breaking up with Eames here, he could do him the courtesy of being more than curious.

—_Does it matter?_ He typed quickly and hit send.

Eames' reply came seconds later.

—_Actually yes, I think it matters very much_

"Arthur?" Dom leaned in to whisper to him. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just…" He put his phone in his pocket. "Sorry about that."

He found himself bouncing his knee and waited until he could retrieve it once more before quickly tapping out an answer.

—_You were right. We're going too fast. Plus, I work a lot. I'm in a meeting right now so I can't talk._

He hit send and put his phone back in his pocket, telling himself he wasn't going to look at it when he got a reply. Except… except he didn't get a reply. The phone stayed still and silent, for two, then five, then fifteen minutes. The meeting dragged on, although he hadn't heard a word said, and his knee continued to jiggle. Dom started shooting concerned looks his way, and Arthur just wanted to get out of the damn meeting and go get something actually done for the first time today.

A knock sounded on the conference room door and the front desk secretary peered in.

"Arthur?" she asked in a stage whisper as if every head in the room hadn't swiveled to them when she came in. "There's someone here for you. It seems like it might be an emergency?"

_Oh, Arthur, don't be silly…_

Arthur looked to Dom, who nodded, and Arthur excused himself quietly. No one moved or spoke until he was gone, and Arthur had one thought in his head as he followed Janet to the front. _God, please not Alex. Please. I can't lose her too._

His knees felt weak when he got to the entranceway and saw not a pair of cops, not a solemn man in a suit, but Eames dressed in scrubs and his bright orange tennis shoes, tattoos and scruff and lips.

Janet was blatantly watching them and Arthur invited Eames back to his office with a tilt of his head.

He held the door open for Eames and then closed it securely behind him, but waited until he was safely behind his desk before he spoke.

"Everything alright, darling?" Eames said first.

Arthur frowned and waved a hand. "Janet said 'emergency' and I thought…"

With a start, Eames realized the problem and looked down at his scrubs in horror. "Oh, Arthur, I'm so sorry to have given you a fright."

"It's fine," Arthur cut him off. "Actually it got me out of a very unnecessary meeting. Why are you here?"

He tried to keep his voice neutral but he wasn't sure he accomplished it based on Eames' raised eyebrow.

"Well, I just figured we should get this 'break' figured out as soon as possible. That way it can be over sooner and we can go back to where we are now."

"But that's the problem," Arthur burst out with frustration. "You said it yourself. We were too intimate too fast, and now I'm—"

"Now wait just a minute," Eames said, still calm, still polite. "I didn't say that."

"You did; you said—"

"I said we fucked too soon. _Intimate_ is what I _wanted_."

Arthur stopped.

Eames looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. "That's what you're worried about? We're being too intimate too fast?"

"Because it's too much!" Arthur shouted. "I don't… I can't… we've only been dating for a few weeks! And I'm not really comfortable with everything I'm feeling when we're only at this stage of a relationship. So I was just suggesting that maybe we need to cool it for a little while because I don't want—"

He broke off, hands on hips, and Eames crossed his arms, waiting. "You don't want what, darling?" he finally asked when Arthur didn't continue.

Arthur couldn't look at him. "I don't want to lose you," he muttered to his desk. "Okay?" He looked up to see Eames looking a little stunned and felt a flicker of anger. "I don't want to do something stupid, or forget something important, and fuck everything up, and be a complete basketcase again when you realize I'm not good enough. And I can't do that. Not when we haven't even been dating that long." He plowed a hand through his hair, realizing he'd been shouting. He swallowed and tried again. "I shouldn't feel this way already."

Eames was there, pulling him into his arms, whispering Arthur's name against his temple. Arthur wrapped his shaking hands around Eames' waist, taking comfort in the feel of him, his steadiness, his surety. They stayed that way for a while, just breathing, and Arthur let Eames make him feel better.

Eames finally pulled back, cupping Arthur's face in his wide hands. "Darling." He smiled, his crooked teeth doing things to Arthur's heart. "Your feelings are your feelings. You're allowed them. And we can go as slow as you want, okay?"

He kissed Arthur and Arthur gasped a broken sound into his mouth. When he pulled back, there were tears on his cheeks he was fairly sure were his own, and he hugged Eames hard.

"Shh," Eames murmured. "One day at a time, right? That's all. Just today. We can do today, yeah?"

Arthur nodded against his shoulder and Eames soothed him, running his palms over his back and arms.

"Okay," he said. "In that case, I have something for you."

Arthur sniffed and pulled away, wiping his face while Eames was pulling something from his waistband. It was a thin rectangle wrapped in Santa Claus paper, and Arthur looked at Eames curiously.

He shrugged sheepishly. "It was the only paper I had."

Arthur's lips twitched and he took the package from him. He tore the paper slowly, revealing a soft brown Moleskin notebook. A quick flip of the pages showed its blank lines, waiting for a heavy pen to imbue them with purpose.

"So you can write things down," Eames said, cradling Arthur's hands in his own. "And you won't have to worry about forgetting anything."

Arthur's breath caught in his throat and he swallowed. "Fuck. I love you. I love you already."

Eames smiled and stroked a thumb across his cheek. "Love you too, darling. Been gone on you from the start."

Arthur laughed, even with tears in his eyes. "Frank is going to be insufferable with his 'I-told-you-so's."

And Eames laughed and kissed him.

* * *

**Epilogue:**

"Eames, where's the wrapping paper?" Arthur yelled from where his head was buried in the closet.

"I don't have any!"

Arthur extracted himself and frowned in Eames' direction. Buzz looked at him in sympathy. After some digging, he unearthed the roll of Santa Claus paper he knew Eames had stashed somewhere and wrapped the two presents they were taking with them.

"Coffee?" Eames asked as he came into the kitchen.

"Just in a travel mug," he answered. "We've got to get going if we're going to be there on time. Do you think Buzz will be okay in the car?"

"Course he will, won't you, mate?" Eames said, kneeling down to scratch his neck. Buzz's tail hit Arthur in the legs.

"Okay, then, we ready?"

Eames stood. "Almost, just as soon as I…" He leaned in and kissed Arthur thoroughly.

He pulled back, grinning and Arthur looked at his watch.

"You know, I think we've got a few minutes before we really need to leave."

* * *

Alex seemed delighted when they showed up late.

"Spaz, he is definitely a good influence on you. I can't _believe _you're not twenty minutes before I have everything set up."

Eames smiled and kissed her on the cheek. "Alex, it's lovely to meet you, and I can already tell you're my favorite of Arthur's siblings."

She laughed, and Arthur rolled his eyes. God, but he loved this man.

"Well, since you didn't get here insanely early, you didn't beat all the other guests."

"Ah, yes," Arthur said. "Finally, the mysterious girlfriend. You know Mom would have freaked out that we didn't have a huge shindig the second you two started dating, let alone moved in together."

"Well, turns out there was a house I sort of owned, her lease was up… it just worked out," she said, shrugging. "But it's good. It's actually really good. She's great; you're going to love her."

"Hey," Arthur said, looking at her seriously. "As long as it feels right to you, it's right. Okay?"

She gave him a funny look. "I know."

"Okay," he said. "Just wanted to make sure."

She led the way to the dining room and Eames took his hand.

"Hey, babe," Alex said, "my brother and Eames are here. This is Arthur, and Arthur, this is my girlfriend—"

"Ariadne," Arthur said. "Good to see you again."

Eames and Alex stared at him.

"You two know each other?"

Arthur nodded. "We met through Frank."

"Sorry, but who the hell is Frank?" Alex asked.

And Eames just laughed. "Looks like he's brought several people into your life, darling."

Arthur leaned into him and smiled. "And a healthy slime buildup too."


End file.
